


In Mist and Shadow

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2005-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:52:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call of the East

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

History is written by the victors. When you read the tale of the Great War between Gondor and the alliance of we Easterlings, Harad, Khand, and Mordor, it will say the Easterlings were no more than evil Men bent on the destruction. It will will say we willingly served the evil Dark Lord in our lust to conquer.

However, if you ask one of the loyal Men of the East, you will hear a different story. He will tell of a proud race of warriors and a noble people defending their ancient ways. He will talk of Men driven to desparate measures in order to finally subdue the ancient menace of Gondor. I am here to say they are both liars.

It all began when I left home... No, that is not exactly the truth. It all began thousands of years ago. We Easterlings have been at war with Gondor on and off as far back as history and legend go. Mordor has long been our ally, but rumors of late said a new power came, or rather an ancient power returned, to Mordor.

In my childhood, I heard many tales from my parents and village elders about the enemies. The most numerous of these were the Men of Gondor, but not the most terrifying. On the enemy's side were the Daemons. Their form was more beautfiul that the most beautiful of Men, but beauty, as it was often said, decieved. Daemons were silent in movement, swift to attack, and attacked Men from afar with archers of unnatural eyesight.

On the seventeenth year after my birth, I left the village I grew up in, as is the custom of our people. When we come of age, we must take our place in the fight against Gondor. I donned the old armor of my father wore in his days in battle, until he bacame too old to go into battle. The armor of the Easterlings was a wonderous thing: a horned metal helmet, interlocking iron plates that covered the whole body. I took in hand my weapon, a long pike, and left after a short ceremony asking for the blessings of the gods Aminwo the Ruler, and Zarinde the Queen, and Tukota the Warrior.

Leaving behind the home I had known all my life, I walked to the north across the plain. The walk was long, but I was used to long journeys, having gone on many hunting trips longer than this. I finally came upon my destination, the military camp of the North.

We Easterlings were not one united kingdom like Gondor. Each village was independent; we had no need for a king. However, faced with war we allied to fight the Western menace under the leadership of Mordor. In the past, almost all our fighting has taken place in the South, against Gondor or our now-ally Harad. Now, at the order of Mordor, some of us march north to fight the allies of Gondor that live there: the Men of the North, and Dwarves, and Daemons.

The camp was full of activity when I arrived. Small tents of hide were pitched everywhere and Men like myself in armor walked about. Unsure of what to do, I looked for one of the captains. After asking among the other solders, for I found a group of captains sitting around a boiling pot of stew talking.

"Sirs!" I addressed them. "I just arrived in the camp. Where am I to go?" A few of them laughed, I suppose at the unnecessary formality with which I addressed them. I was told to find a tent and rest in camp until I was assigned a mission.

I made many aquaintances quickly. In general, the other soldiers were quite good-natured, and loved to joke around. One thing did bother me, perhaps just my imagination. I somehow seemed to be on the outside of everything, like I was set apart from the rest of the Men in some intangile way. I attributed it to being a newcomer of the army. The others had been together longer and probably fought side-by-side in battle. Of course that would forge bonds I was not privy to. Unfortunatly, I did not stay in camp with these jovial Men long enough even to learn any of their names, which I am horrible with.

Not a week after I arrived at the camp, a captain gathered several of us together for a mission, my first of the war. He took us all into a large tent and explained what we were to do. A fortress of Mordor, Dol Gulder, was surrounded basically all sides by the enemy. We were to escort a caravan of supplies to the fortress, killing any of the enemy that attacked. Our course was due west, through lands under the control of our enemies the Northern Men and unfriendly Dwarves, and finally into the massive forest that surrounded Dol Gulder.

We set out at noon, with the blazing sun overhead. There were fifteen of us, including myself, the captain, and the Men driving the carts. The captain told us to walk two on either side of each of the horse-drawn carts.

"This is a fine trip," said the Man walking beside me almost as soon as we started out. Though we were soldiers, discipline was apparently lax when combat was not at hand. "I'm just glad I'm not down on the front lines near Gondor. They say those battlefields turn men into corpses quicker than anything."

"I'd like to me down there," I said. "It would be a chance to do something heroic, unlike this."

He laughed, but it was a cold laugh. "Let me tell something about heroes. You don't see many of them around, because most of them are dead."

"Better dead than a coward," I retorted.

"Better a coward for a minute than dead for the rest of your life."  
I introduced myself, and he gave his name as Kazuo. He was a strange fellow, a little older than me. He'd seen battle before. He lived near a Dwarf-mansion, Dwarves who were once allies and forged much of the weapons and armor we now use. Some years ago, a rider from Mordor stormed the mountain and killed the Dwarves' king over the ownership of a gold ring supposedly forged in ancient times. The Dwarves severed the ancient alliance with we Men of the East, as we are Mordor's ally, and began attacking nearby villages, including Kazuo's. So from the time Kazuo was old enough to fight, he had to fight the Dwarves "enough to know battle is no pretty thing."

There was indeed little to do on this march, so our company talked quite a bit, I and Kazuo, Khâl and Evrik, the other Men, and the two women Zhine and Azire. (Our tradition let women fight alongside Men as archers if they so choose, for it was said a woman's aim was better than a Man's.) Like at camp, we got along well.

However, it still seemed as if I were on the outside of everything. Except for Kazuo and me, everyone seemed to share some intangible bond. Even more conspicuously, when we stopped at night, groups of people wandered off by themselves. I supposed they were going off in private to pray or make sacrifices to the gods.

The world seemed to change when we came into the West Land. The vast plains were gone, replaced by huge expanses of trees. How was an army supposed to fight in this type of terrain? Now I saw the true danger of this mission: forests gave enemies a place to conceal troops and take us by ambush.

"If you keep talking about bad things like that," Kazuo said when I mentioned this, "they'll happen." I never was a superstitious man, but perhaps there was a bit of truth to what he said. I quit talking about it.


	2. At the Forest of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

Finally the forests came to an end for a while and we came upon a treeless expanse of land. "Be careful," said the captain. "This land is dangerous. We're days away from the Northmen's Town and Dwarf Mountain, but they send soldiers down here to keep watch for invaders from the East." Still, we walked across the grassy plain, occasionally glancing around for any signs of hostile soldiers.

Suddenly, I heard a yell from what seemed to be nowhere. Then, from over the hill in front of us, there charged to the top of the hill four short but stocky figures clad in heavy iron mail, carrying with them battle axes. The Dwarves were upon us.

Madly the Dwarves charged down the hill at us, their axes held high, screaming their war cry in the Dwarf tongue. Despite the lack of numbers, they look truly fearsome, determined to kill us at any cost.

"Men!" yelled the captain. "Formation!" Sloppily, the ten of us spearmen lined up with our spears high in the air. My heart beat faster as we prepared for battle. "Advance!" We held our spears in front of us and ran forward.

A change occurred in the Dwarves as we came upon them. Their valor that had been present just moments before was gone. I saw into the eyes of the Dwarf I charged, and I could see he was afraid. The force of impact of my spear against the Dwarf mail was enough to knock the target off-balance, though it did not penetrate the armor. Then Kazuo, with a look of grim resolution on his face, ran his spear into the face of the same Dwarf.

On my other side, Khâl had a wild look on his face I had never seen. He hurled his spear at the dwarf, hitting in the neck. The bleeding form collapsed to the ground, and Evrik with same wild look stood above the Dwarf, ramming his spear twice through the forehead of the Dwarf.

The bloody spectacle was soon over. Four bloody and disfigured Dwarves lay on the ground quite obviously dead, with no casualties on our side. "We must hurry," the captain said as the Men wiped their weapons clean of blood. "We're close to the forest. We can't afford to stay in once place for too long."

It seemed clear to me, there was some sort of difference between me and everyone else (except possibly Kazuo.) They seemed to actually enjoy that battle from they said afterwards, laughing at the fate of the Dwarves. I felt no pity for them, after all, they tried to kill me, but to laugh about their fate? And what was the wild look on the faces of either Men so alien I knew not even what it meant?

We soon came upon the forest. Just peering inside, I could see the interior of the forest had precious little light. How were we supposed to see to get through there?

"I didn't tell you this before," said the captain, "but this forest is the homeland of the Daemons. We must move as fast as we can down the path, or we will leave ourselves open to ambush." Daemons? Daemons were said to be nearly impossible to kill in an open field, but here where there ambush skills would be magnified? Where they knew the terrain? Where they could easily set traps?

At the edge of the woods stood a sign, written in the letters of the Daemons. "Can anybody read it?" the captain asked as he glanced over the strange letters.

"A little bit," I said as I walked up to the sign. My uncle, being a man of books, taught me how to read the letters of the demons, but their language I knew little of. Still, I tried to puzzle out the meaning. _"Taur-e-ndaedelos, ardh thranduil aran, cuina athan i thafn sen."_ I searched my mind for the meanings of these Daemonic words. "Forest of the... something... world... something... king... That's all I can read."

"Well," said Kazuo smugly, "thanks to your invaluable knowledge, we now this is a forest."

"We could only assume before," I responded. "Now we know."  
There was a path through the woods, though calling it a path at all was generous. It was a space cleared of trees just wide enough for the carts we were guarding to pass through. Above all, the darkness seemed to swallow everything. The gaps in the trees overhead let in precious little light.

For two days we walked through that vacuum of light, stumbling around. We heard all manner of noises from the wood around us, no doubt horrible beasts we hoped not to meet. The second night, if there was indeed much difference between day and night in that maddening place, we sat down to rest. Evrik started a fire and we all gathered around it while the stew boiled.

"What do you suppose," wondered Zhine as she put a log onto the fire, "the soldiers of Mordor are like?"

"Horrible things," said the captain with a bit of a shudder. "Orcs. They're savage beasts. They don't even look human. I've seen them feed on the flesh of their enemies. They only reason they don't kill us too is that they fear the wrath of their masters if they touch us."  
"Who are the masters?" I asked, wondering why I wanted to talk of such unpleasant things.

_"Nazgûl,"_ said Khâl as he stirred the stew. "Dark, ancient spirits loyal to the dread Lord of Mordor."

Out of nowhere, a whizzing noise came. An arrow from nowhere flew at a man on the other side of the fire. Without a helmet, the arrow plunged directly into his eye. All us Men went into shock for what must have been only a second, but seemed much longer as he slumped over dead.

"Daemons!" yelled the captain. We scrambled to our feet and grabbed our weapons, but outside of the range of the fire was total darkness, the fire ruining what night-sight we would have had. A flurry of arrows shot from all around us, most bouncing off our body armor, but two feeling Men around me. Our archer-women took their bows, but all they could do was blindly shoot into the darkness.

"We can't just stand here!" yelled Evrik. "Attack!" He charged out into the darkness, spear waving frantically. Caught up in the moment, we had a sudden impulse to either fight or run. With running impossible, we charged off into the dark after him.

The sound of several things leaping down from the trees and Daemonic words being yelled reached my ears. Blind, I began stabbing at whatever was around me. A sudden influx of light burned my eyes as a torch-wielding Daemon jumped from the trees.  
I had no time to marvel at my first sight of a Daemon, for their was killing going on all around me. Daemonic knives slashed at us and we stabbed back, holding our spears as knives we could stab with. Screams and curses, Mannish and Daemonic, echoed through the darkness.

From a treetop, a Daemonic archer held aloft a flaming arrow. Our archers Zhine and Azire shot at the suddenly immensely visible target. His lifeless body fell from the tree with a dull thud, but not before he loosed his arrow. It hit its target, setting aflame one of the carts: horse, driver, and all.

In this chaos, I tripped over something and fell on my face. Panicking, I stabbed wildly above me. A cry in the strange tongue went out, and what I stabbed stumbled about, then the bleeding form collapsed on top of me. I shoved what was by then a corpse off of me, and I looked, though the there was not enough light for me to see, at the thing I had killed.

I know not how long it took, but finally the cries of the Daemons ceased. Kazuo, one of the survivors, was visibility shaking with fear and repulsion. I know, because I felt the exact same thing. Still, he lit several more fires around. Nine of us lay dead, including the charred remains of the cart driver and Evrik who led the attack. The survivors were myself, Kazuo, Khâl, the archer Azire, one of the cart drivers, and the captain. The corpses of the Daemons that we counted number only five.

Now I saw what Kazuo said about war. All Men know, at least on some level, that killing is horrible. But now... Men I knew, Men I befriend, Men I talked and joked with not an hour ago, were now nothing more than a heap of bodies. The captain, Khâl, and Azire gathered in front of the bodies and reciting a prayer, I supposed to Manamo the Judge to put their souls at peace. Having just witnessed a battle, I did not feel very much like praying.


	3. Statues in the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

The six of us made our way through the rest of the dark forest without incident, and it was then we finally came to the fortress called Dol Gulder. It was an impressive fortress, built of huge chunks of granite. The ominous construction stood black against the sky, which I clearly saw for the first time since I entered the woods.

Greeting our caravan were orcs. I've never seen the creatures before, but every tale of them I ever heard was proved true. They were ugly creatures, hideous to look at. They were varied in their hideous shape and size, ranging from the height of a child to seven feet tall, but all had disfigured gray skin. We moved the precious supplies in past them.

"Take the carts on inside; follow the orcs," the captain ordered the others. He turned his eyes to me. "You," he began, "I'd like to talk with you for a while."

"Yes, sir," I answered a bit of hesitation, wondering why he would want to talk with me in particular, and why he couldn't have said it in the previous few weeks we traveled together.

He led me away from the group, down one of the strange, twisting hallways of the fortress. I glanced at the torch-lit walls every once in a while, seeing words in the Dameon letters which I assumed were in the language of Mordor. We talked for a while, me basically saying how horrible the battle was and the captain saying how veteran soldiers, after enough battles, come to in a way enjoy it. I hoped I would never get to that point. Suddenly, he bade me stop as we passed beside a wooden door, not the first we passed.

"You're a believer in the gods, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, not knowing where he was going with this.

The captain smiled, but not a natural smile. I could tell he was leading me toward something. "Aren't all Men?"

Not knowing what to say, I began babbling. "Most of us Men of the East, I would believe. I've been told the Haradrim revere their kings as gods, and I know nothing of what the Variags believe."

"What about the Daemons?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. I would think things as evil as they would revere no gods, or else worship idols evil as themselves." And why in the world should it matter what the Dameons believed?

"They have gods. In this room are statues of all of them. Would you care to see?"

My curiosity urged me on. My philosophy so far was to learn as much about the enemy as possible, and I already knew their writing and some of their language. Perhaps this could prove useful one day.

He opened the door into the dusty room. Fourteen statues of beings, in the shapes of both Men and Daemons, stood around the room. I looked at the tallest one, which looked to be a Man, and read the inscription underneath. _"Manwë Súlimo, heru en dûn."_ "Manwë Súlimo, Lord of the West." This Manwë seemed uncomfortably similar to the great god Aminwo the Ruler.

I walked on to the next one, a statue of a female Daemon. "Varda the Queen of Stars." And the next... "Tulkas the Warrior." "Ulmo the Sea-King." "Yavanna the Queen of the Earth."

It made no sense. These were not the gods of Damons, these were my gods. The names were slightly different, but that was a moot point. I sat down on the stone floor.

Could it be that we worshipped the same gods as the Daemons? If so, how were they any differnet than us? Can it be that I have been worshipping the Daemon gods this whole time? Were all those sacrifices I made to Daemonic gods? Were all those prayers I made to the same gods that Daemons served?

I sat there, just thinking, for a long while. After I could no longer deny that my gods and the Daemon gods were the same, I formulated several theories. The gods do not exist at all, which seemed utterly impossible. We worship the same gods, which by logic makes us both by nature either good, if the gods were good, or evil, if the reverse was true. Did this make the Daemons good? I knew that was impossible: I saw them use fire arrows to burn a Man alive. The alternative...

The captain with me helped me to my feet. "We Men of Mordor have our own beliefs. Would you like to hear?"

What did I have lose? I worshipped Daemonic gods already.


	4. Sauron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

I stood in camp of Easterlings north of Mordor, where night was falling. The march here from Dol Gulder was not exactly pleasant, but now I had a chance to look upon plains again, the first thing that reminded me of home since I joined this army. Khâl explained to me on the way what the people of Mordor believed.

The Dark Lord Sauron was not only the leader of Mordor, Khâl told me in whispers, but their god, a mighty and terrible power that none could contest with. However unbelievable it was at first, their religion became more and more real as we approached Mordor. Through the mountains, I could see the top of some gigantic tower. Atop it, the Eye of Sauron, a blazing red phantasm, loomed over the Black Land. That Eye was a strange thing, a thing that both called me toward it and repelled me.

The march took us to the camp of the Easterlings. We arrived at sunset, when the Sauron worship took place. The gods I had known were Daemon gods and no longer mine, so I had no reason not to go. I persuaded Kazuo to come with me to the tent of worship, though he was open distrustful of the Sauron worship. "This reminds me of the god the Dwarves worship. They refuse to reveal anything about him to outsiders. There's no reason for secrecy and whispers unless they have something to hide"

I ducked into the large tent, a simple construction of poles and leather. Even as Kazuo was mumbling about the waste of time, I was thankful to be removed from that horrible Eye. Several more people, seemingly normal Easterlings like myself, slowly filtered into the tent and began standing around. I recognized the captain and Khâl elsewhere in the crowd. When the crowd stopped flowing in, three Men carried a platform to the side of the tent opposite the entrance.

Onto the platform walked someone I recognized: the archer Azire, one of the survivors of my last mission. However, she had removed the cumbersome metal armor and stood wearing a long black dress. She held up her hands and stood before the crowd.

"We gather together in the name of our Dark Lord, whose name is terrible." She picked up a small statue or Zarinde, or Varda to the Daemons. "Who are these gods? What have they ever done for you? You've prayed to them. How many times have your prayers been answered? You ask them for favors in exchange for sacrifices, but when have you ever gotten something in return for what you gave up?"

Her voice deepened as she continued. "Sauron is not a false god. You've all heard the children's stories about how the dead are judged by Manamo. Who has ever died and came back to tell this? Who knows what lies beyond the veil of death?"

"None but our Lord the Necromancer, who is the god of death. Unlike false gods, he rewards his servants. Surely you have heard of the _Nazgûl_. They were his first and most loyal servants, and they were given eternal life. For three thousand years they have lived, having mastery over death."

I stood listening, transfixed. Mastery over death? The very thought amazed me. Immortality was the Daemon's gift, the one thing they possessed that we never could. If we ceased to be subject to death...

"Behold, Sauron rewards his followers. Watch, and tremble at his might!" The room seemed to darken. Azire pointed a hand at the statue of Zarinde. She closed her eyes. "My Lord Sauron!" A harsh light flared up in the room with a sound like the crack of a whip, and the when the light died I was in the same tent, except gray smoke and a strange burnt smell hung in the air, and the statue of the goddess was blasted into several pieces.

Azire raised her arms once again and gestured around the crowd. "Who doubts the power of the Necromancer? Are there any who would rather follow a statue," she kicked one of the pieces, "than a god with real power?"

This power frightened me. Never in my life have a I saw anything so otherworldly. If Sauron could do this, what could he be but a god?


	5. The Outsider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

Our company, probably forty strong, broke camp and left the next morning, on a march east toward the Black Gate. Our camp was very near the Gate of Mordor, my old captain assuring that we would reach there before nightfall. This march was somehow quieter and more formal than the one to Dol Gulder. Perhaps this was the old Easterling tradition of meeting battle with a clear head at work, even with the faith of the Dark Power of Mordor strong among the soldiers.  
Whatever the reason, it gave me time to think. What was Sauron? I could not, even when I tried, disbelieve the power of a god was at work. Magicians could do the same thing through trickery, a fact I reminded myself of in weighing the idea Sauron was not a god. Yet working any magic, much less something so impressive, would take most of a lifetime to learn properly, and Azire was scarcely older than I.

The idea of a god like Sauron, rewarding service to him instead of some simply doing good deeds, was foreign to a man who believed in the old gods his whole life. Indeed, with this Sauron seemed to be something beyond good and evil. With him, the only thing that mattered was power. Perhaps this was not a bad thing. Power over oneself at the very least was a desire of all Men, so who would call the will to power evil? Moreover, Sauron made the promise of mastery over death, which held a sweet ring to one who came so close to death battling Daemons back in that dark forest.

I was pulled back to reality when I heard the swish of an arrow past my head. The company fell into confusion, each of us grabbing the pikes we held tightly I hoped reverently not to be faced with Daemons again. After looking around frantically and seeing several more arrows shoot into our midst, I spotted our attackers: six Men of Gondor, standing atop a nearby hill. Our archers tried to ready their bows and aim, but any archer will say it is difficult to hit a target above, especially when they were partially concealed as these were. Another barrage of Gondorian arrows brought screams of Easterling agony. We quickly reassembled into a line of pikemen and charged at the enemy up the hill. Moving uphill made us perfect targets, and more of our number fell dead to their arrows.

When we neared them, three turned and fled. The remaining three Men dropped their bows and pulled from their sheaths long swords, which they held with both hands. Two were impaled upon our pikes before they could act, but the third parried the charge of the Easterling attacking him, who happened to be my friend Kazuo.

Kazuo attempted to bludgeon the enemy with the shaft of the pike, as the whole weapon was too long to use in a melee. However, the Gondorian struck first. With the force of both hands, he thrust the sword through the armor's weak point, the gaps between the plates. Kazuo cried out in agony, but as he did several pikes stuck into the enemy, killing him nearly instantly.

I wish I could say the same for Kazuo. He didn't die right away. We stopped our march to look after the wounded. The veteran soldiers knew how to bandage wounds and we were told to watch them and learn. The wound in Kazuo's chest was easily enough covered, but the blood kept pouring. I knew his time was short.

"This is the end," he told me with a cough as he lay on the ground, clad only in his robe with his armor beside him. He fumbled through his pack until he found a small bottle. He swore as poured the contents of the bottle, a reddish powder, over his wound. "Dulls the pain," he managed to say as he dropped one bottle and pulled another one from his pack. He pulled the top off, then fell quiet for a while. Finally, he put the bottle to his lips, then swallowed. "The end..." he muttered as whatever he drank put him to sleep, which he never awoke from.

Azire, clad again in the black dress, lit a fire. It was still early evening, but the gloom, over myself at least, made the light seem darker and the fire brighter. "Behold!" began the priestess Azire. "We have seem death. Our Lord the Necromancer is the master of death, and demands lives as a sacrifice, both the enemies' lives and our own. Look!" She motioned to the corpses of the Men of Gondor behind her. "We give their lives as a sacrifice to the Dark Lord." She motioned to the six dead Easterlings, one of which was my friend before he died. "These Men died, that we may overcome death."

I saw what happened to Kazuo. If there was any way to keep that from happening, any way at all... If following the Dark Lord Sauron was the only way to attain it...


	6. The Shadow Over Mordor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

The dead were buried and the company continued its march. As the sun sank in the sky, we finally reached the Black Gate. It was a massive stone wall, constructed between two mountains. As we neared, the stone wall slowly split in two and opened as two huge doors via some unseen mechanism.

The landscape became more bleak as we marched further into Mordor. Grass, what little grew, was thin and brown; trees were nonexistent except for gnarled, ugly trunks. I hated this place. Even if Mordor and Lord Sauron was our greatest ally against the hordes of Gondor and the Daemons, I hated this place. The bleakness, the savage orcs, the Eye continually watching all... and something utterly alien. Some almost visible shadow covers the Black Land, bending Men to Sauron's will. I haven't been told this, but I can tell. I can see it in men's faces, the occasional smiles or flashes of optimism gone.

The day after we entered the Black Land, we arrived at the camp, a sprawling mass of Men. Easterlings armed with pikes and axes, Variags of Khand with their horses, and the scarlet-armored Haradrim with their gigantic _mûmakil_ milled about the maze of tents and people. As I looked for an unoccupied tent amongst all the general disorder, I saw something flying overhead, a Man-shaped thing draped in black robes riding some twisted black creature, an impossible combination of bird and beast that bore an uneasy resemblance to the mythical dragons. Was this the nameless horror of rumor, a _Nazgûl_?

After I picked out a tent, I inquired among the other soldiers as to when the next ritual of Lord Sauron took place. The Men I spoke with told me the worship was every third day, one being tonight. With the sun already low in the sky, it was to begin soon.

It was not purely reverence for Lord Sauron that moved me to become interested, though the Eye of Sauron, that phantasm which never sleeps, was all the proof of his power that I needed. There was a certain curiosity of mine, a desire to know more about the Necromancer, that drove me to attend this meeting. That vague shadow over Mordor made it seem unwise to speak very much about Lord Sauron, so the only way to obtain any knowledge was to attend the ritual.

The worship area was outside, a huge exposed rock being used a platform. Around the area were several statues carved out of the same dark gray stone. A wolf carving, three feet tall, stood perfectly still with bared fangs. Another carving stood nearby: the shape was a cruel mockery of a Man's, the leathery-looking wings that replaced arms repulsive to look at. Somehow most terrible of all, however, loomed the most Manlike of the statues. It stood eight feet tall, looking like a Man clad in armor and wielding a scepter.

I wondered what those idols could represent. Sauron seemed likely to be a jealous Lord, so how could the worship of other gods continue in his own land? I may have spent a great deal more time examining and theorizing about those hideous shapes, but then more Men began to arrive for the ritual of Sauron. Easterlings, Variags, and Haradrim arrived in masses, forming a vague semicircle facing the platform stone. My old conception of the cult of Sauron dissolved in that moment, from some close-knit group giving sacrifice to Lord Sauron to an army of faithful worshippers of the Necromancer, ready to kill or die in his name.

An aged Man walked onto the high place, draped in blue robes and using an iron staff as a walking stick. His hair and beard had already lost all color, he did not appear feeble as he walked onto the stage. The noisy crowd quieted as he walked before them.

"Behold Lord Sauron!" The magistrate raised his arms in the air, then lowered them. "Who dares oppose Lord Sauron? He is the greatest of all powers in Middle-Earth. He brings death to the arrogant hordes of Gondor; he works his wrath against the Daemons."

The priest of Sauron raised his staff into the air. His staff took on an unnatural light, a cold blue shine of no natural origin. He shouted several words in some alien tongue and a barren tree near the crowd burst aflame with red and orange tongues of fire. I stood watching in amazement. I had seen the magic of Sauron before, but this time was no less wondrous or unnatural than the last, maybe more so. I watched fixated as the flames reached upward against darkened sky.

The priest once again lifted his staff toward the sky. A harsh blue-white light exploded in front of the wizard with deafening thunder that left the ears ringing. Once the dust cleared, it was apparently that lightning struck the rock he stood on in front of him.

Both Azire's splitting of the statue and the combustion of the tree could be achieved through mortal trickery. Lightning was a force of nature, completely beyond the control of man. Indeed it was a mystery, and mysteries were the sphere of gods. My desire for knowledge, the same desire that led me to learn the horrible truth behind the gods I used to worship, drew me toward the mysterious Necromancer that held unbreakable sway over Mordor.

"Our god is a god of power!" yelled the man in blue. "In his name, you will bring the cowards of Gondor to their knees. However, Lord Sauron is a real god, and unlike the stone statues you once bowed before, he demands real sacrifices."

The crowd began to whisper as a party walked up beside him. Two were tall men in Easterling armor, holding their battle axes at their side. The third was an orc, its hands bound but its mouth shouting curses at the soldier and the crowd.

"In exchange for victory, over the enemy and over death, he demands blood!" The priest pulled from his robe a dagger, its polished blade and serrated edges all too visible against the darkening sky. "Lord Sauron, take this sacrifice!" He shouted an admonition in the strange tongue, and I joined the rest of the crowd and shouted it back.

The priest steadying the orc's head with one hand atop it, then in one swift motion the dagger sliced open its throat. The corpse fell to the ground, blood still flowing. The crowd went silent as the deed was done, but when the orc fell they began to cheer and yell all manner of things. I too was joyous, for I had just given a great sacrifice to Lord Sauron. The fact that an orc was dead mattered not; orcs were not Men, little more than living weapons and fodder for the Dark Lord's war machine.

The celebration quickly grew more chaotic. Variags brought out mead by the barrels and the true revelry began, a scene of disorder and fright so much that words are inadequate to convey the absolute chaos the camp fell into. Through the drinking and singing and brawling I forced my way toward the platform, half elated with the chaos and freedom, half terrified of it. When I reached the edge of the crowd, I saw the blue wizard that presided over the ritual leaving the disorder and retiring toward the tents.

"Wait!" I called out to him. He promptly stopped and turned around, looking at me. I felt a reverence for this old man, one who wields Sauron's magic like a warrior wields a sword. "Tell me," I implored him. "I want to know more about Lord Sauron."

"The secrets of the Dark Lord are many and ancient. To tell them all would take too long. Can you read?"

"Yes, the Easterling and Daemon letters."

He walked into a nearby tent. In a moment, he emerged with an ancient, battered green book he set into my waiting hands. "Read deeply."


	7. The Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

I looked at the faded green cover of the book, on which was written _Nameless Darkness_ in gold ink with Daemon letters. Tbe rest was in my tongue, saving me the horrible headache of translation.

It began with an account by the Blue Wizard. The Wizard came into the East with intent to challenge Sauron, but soon realized fighting Lord Sauron was futile. He named Sauron the Lord of Death and praised his might. There were poems of fear and worship, poems which closely mirrored my own reverence of the ancient power of Sauron.

It spoke of all of Sauron's dreadful forms: an ancient and cruel sorcerer that worked his magic from the darkness, a vicious wolf of unsurpassed strength, a serpent with fangs dripping the most vile of poison, the form of a hideous Man with the wings of a bat, a beautiful form fairer that Daemons, and a merciless tyrant in black armor. Sauron, though, is wholly unlike mortals. He has no true form.

He is not of this world. Sauron came to this world from the Outside. Beyond this Middle-Earth, beyond the circles of the world, lies the Void and Everlasting Darkness, from whence came that which is called Lord Sauron.

I trembled as I read the long, rambling account. Next came another account, this time by a Daemon, entitled "The First Account of Lord Sauron in this Age." I though Deamons knew no fear until I began reading the account.

_"On my hunting trip, I wandered away from my normal lands and into the southern part of the great forest. Our people tend to stay toward the north as of late, but I happened upon the trail of good game._

Something about the forest seemed unnatural. Every day, the sunlight that came through the leaves appeared less bright and the starlight dimmer. Every day, the forest took on a darker green until the whole of the wood looked black.

When I neared the hill of Dol Gulder, some vague urging in my inner mind, apart from the darkness, told me to turn back. Still, I moved onward though the trail of the game had long since disappeared.

I heard as I moved through the dark bushes music, like the sound of a flute playing some chaotic melody, which drew me toward its source. Moving toward the source not entirely of my own will, I believed I heard playing with the flute drums. I walked onto the hill of Dol Gulder, into the Darkness, the Shadow. Still the drums beat: drums, drums, drums in the Dark that overtook all. This Shadow over Dol Gulder gripped me, gripped me, held me as if it had my mind and body in a metal hand.

I do not know what happened in that horrible Darkness. My memory has faded until my awakening by the Anduin. Over Dol Gulder looms a power like death, an intangible Necromancer even the Eldar cannot contend with."

The accursed tome told of all Sauron's deeds. The Rings of Power, forged by the very hand of Sauron which even now bend all Middle-Earth to his will... The people who once inhabited Mordor now completely enslaved or else dead, with the rest of Middle-Earth soon to follow... The creation of the orcs themselves from fallen Daemons through unspeakable means... Massive pyres of worship, in which Men were burnt alive... Men and Daemons fed alive to the wolves for sheer pleasure...

I wanted to stop reading, but it was beyond my power. As a man who longs to put away mead cannot, I was unable to throw that horrible knowledge never meant for the minds of Men away. Intoxicated on the horrible knowledge, I kept on reading.

To my utter horror, I saw that Sauron was not alone. Second only to Him was the horrible Balrog called Durin's Bane, an ancient and destructive power that even now sleeps beneath the halls of the Dwarf mansion Khazad-Dûm, ready to awaken at any time and rain fire upon Middle-Earth. Another Balrog, no less fiery, bides its time in the cold, frozen waste of the North beyond the land of Men. The Hunter, the horrible formless terror that twists the body and mind of all it ensnares that lurks in the Utmost East. These and other eldritch horrors occupy Middle-Earth, yet chief among them is Sauron, who the others dare not oppose. Sauron... The-Thing-That-Should-Not-Be.

I dropped the book. I know not how time passed, for I began reading of the night, and after futile denial of the truth, I simply sat staring at the wall of my tent for I know not how long. This was all too much... too soon... Things which Man was never meant to know...


	8. Dreams on the Battle-Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

"The Daemons attack!"

I heard the voice which snapped me out of my trance clearly. By this time it was dawn. I grabbed the first weapon I saw, my pike, and staggered from my tent.

I heard the conversation of the captains as I walked forward to meet battle, somehow without ever making a conscious decision to go fight. I was part of the horde of Sauron against which none can stand, what choice did I have?

"What's going on!"

"A Daemon army is upon us! They found an unguarded pass in the Black Mountains. We had no idea..."

"Come on! To arms!"

I rushed mechanically to the front lines, where the pikemen were supposed to stand. I looked at the Daemons marching against Mordor. They were few in number compared to the great hordes of Men, so it was obvious even with superior skills they had no chance. We held our pikes steady as the Daemonic swordsmen charged us. Everyone readied their weapons to pierce the enemy...

And I did nothing. I simply stood, trembling and watching, as battle unfolded around me. Easterling axes killed Daemons and Daemonic swords bloodied Easterlings, and I did nothing. As still as my body was, my mind was racing. Still reeling from the horrible mystery of Sauron, I simply did not have the rush of battle or will of self-preservation that makes Men fight.

A Daemon ran at me, coming so close I could see into his gray eyes. I made no move to defend myself, and he pulled back his sword from my neck, then ignoring me moved to attack another soldier. The dying screams of Men and Daemons, the horrible sights, the smell of blood... All these can be withstood by a mind on guard and absorbed in battle. I, however, was at the full mercy of the scene. My madness overcoming me, I fell to my knees, then to the ground, closing my eyes and blacking out, leaving me alone in my head with the growing madness of Sauron.

A dream, a dream whose absolute horror stifles any doubt to its reality, came into the darkness. There stood amidst the darkness Sauron in his form as a mighty warrior. I wanted to desperately to close my eyes or turn my head, but my vision locked upon him. Then, the Lord of Mordor, the Necromancer, the God of Death... bowed down. Before Sauron in the blackness something swirrled continally and chaotically. I tried to will myself awake before my mind could know the truth.

Sauron is not the Master. Sauron is only a priest.

He worships nothing less than a God beyond all human thought, the creeping chaos Morgoth who dwells in the Void of Everlasting Darkness. The world in the beginning came from Darkness, and to Darkness it is to return. Before Morgoth, even the mighty Sauron is a feeble worshipper.

Such things... Things which Man was never meant to know...


	9. The Horror At Mordor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

I awoke in a tent near the battlefield. I suppose some soldier not yet fully immersed in the cruelty of Sauron carried me from the field of the dead. My armor and weapon lay in a pile beside me. I stood, but as soon as I did another Man, an Easterling, rushed into the tent.  
"Come on!" he urged me. "The worship is about to begin!" I shook my head in protest, but he insisted that I go. Grabbing the pike out of force of habit, I walked armorless from the tent and wearily toward the unavoidable thing that awaited me.

The same Blue Wizard stood at the forefront again. This time on the platform with him stood a small boy, one of the slaves of Sauron, with arms and legs chained together. The crowd stood even more massive than the last time, and there stood at the edge of the crowd one of the _Nazgûl_ , a nameless servants of Sauron, mounted atop some Fell Beast. I stood in the crowd, shaking my head at what I knew was to unfold.

"Behold Lord Sauron!" began the priest. Sauron... dare not oppose... Sauron... dare not oppose... I knew I was going mad. This horrible knowledge... Dark Power... Dark Lord... Sauron... Madness was inevitable. Logic seemed pointless; reason a falsehood. I looked up, and saw that horrible Eye of Sauron watching me.

I am tempted here to lie. I want to say that I stood frozen with fear through the whole ordeal, creating a believable lie to cover up the truth. I want to say I did some great heroic deed, slaying the evil priest or speaking out against the cruel sacrifice and winning the crowd over, so any reading this may call me a liar and discount the whole tale.

Fear, a fear unlike any I had ever known, welled up inside me. I had to flee, flee from the Eye. Madness seized me, madness which all discounts all logic. I looked at the _Nazgûl_ , then rammed my pike through the chest of the wraith. It fell off the horrible mount and stumbled backward, the weapon still lodged in its chest. Knowing only I had to flee that horrible Eye that seemed to look into my very mind, I climb atop the Fell Beast and grabbed the reigns. Frantically, I jerked the reigns to urge the beast to move.

I rose slowly into the air atop the thing. Somehow the shock of lifting into the sky, where Man is not meant to be, was dulled by the impulse to flee at all costs. The Wizard looked at me with a look of horrible anger, calling a bolt of lightning from the clouds above to strike me down. Somehow, the bolt missed and I soared through the sky unmolested on the Fell Beast. I knew not where to go, so I yanked the reigns to the left, the North, out of Mordor and into lands I knew nothing of.


	10. Dream Quest of Arda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

My madness deepened as I soared into the unknown north on the horrible thing I scarcely knew how to ride. I drifted in and out of some sort of sleep, continually seeing visions more real than any dream flash before my eyes. I knew not whether these visions were of the the past, present, or future, only that I saw them.

I saw the crowd in Mordor, once again under the authority of the Wizard. The slave boy was gone, but I knew very well what the burning pyre beside him meant. "You are willing to give all to Lord Sauron, who grants Men freedom from death. Are you willing to transcend death and the Doom of Men?" The crowd cheered. He began chanting in the alien tongue, and the crowd followed along with him, until the fire snuffed out and the whole scene became so dark I could see no more.

The light returned and revealed the Blue Wizard again, but now above him there swirled a horrible mass of green-white light, made up of what appeared to be the ghastly shades of Mannish forms. He smiled a smile of triumph, one which he was perfectly assured of.

I saw before my eyes the Void, a place devoid of existence. In the center of nothingmess existed Morgoth, who appeared to me as a Man tall as a tower and wearing a Crown of Iron. Around his wrists were clamped a great chain. Voices from a time and place long past floated through my head.

"Now that we have bound Morgoth in the Chain of Iron, we must banish him to the Void."

"You know the Chain cannot hold forever. It will break, and he will escape strengthened by his hatred and malice."

I saw in the deepest mines of Khazad-Dum and the coldest reaches of the North two mighty spirits of fire, Balrogs. They lifted their horrible limbs to sky and their physical form dissolved into nothing, leaving a whirlwind of gold and scarlet light.

The Blue Wizard, commanding his whirlwinds of Men's shades, stuck their hand into the flow. His body glowed with the same bright light, then the shades and Wizard alike dissolved into the same swirls of scarlet and gold.

Yet another new dream showed the sea, with the coast in the distance. A great stream of scarlet and gold flowed in from the land, made up of stolen and forfeited souls. It grew larger, larger, still larger, never ceasing as it accumulated.

Again, the Void. Morgoth lay there still, but then some new existence flowed into the Void. A stream of scarlet and gold now circled the one whose iron chain should never break, should for the sake of all existence never break. The energy converged, flowing into the giant, adding unto him its own power, adding itself to the already unspeakable power of the god. He pulled his arms apart, and a sound like thunder rang in my ears.

I drifted in and out of reality in between those dreams. From the glimpses around me, I saw forests and green and below me, the land of Mordor long gone. As the final vision came before my eyes, I fought to drive it away, but still the unnatural picture came into focus. On the coast of the sea, in this world, the physical world, stood the towering black Morgoth, free from the Void. Hope failed me. If Man was unable to contest with Sauron, what could they do against Sauron's god?

The picture mercifully fading, I felt the Fell Beast descending to the ground. As it touched solid earth I fell to the ground and crawled away. The beast collapsed, dead from exhaustion, and I felt like doing the same. What could I do now that I death embodied walking upon the shore of Middle-Earth?

I looked up at my surroundings. I lay beside a great forest. The old green trees looked somehow very alive, in jarring contrast to the images of death that so plagued my mind, and I felt in this place the complete absence of the Shadow of Sauron.

I heard in the woods a strange noise, which I quickly recognized as singing. Not chanting, but honest, simple singing. Out of the woods ambled the source of the singing, a figure ridiculous and even laughable. He stood about five feet tall, his face reddish and wrinkled, with bright blue eyes and a short brown beard. He wore a bright blue jacket, yellow boots, and a funny-looking hat with a white feather. Though I had no reason to smile with the knowledge of Morgoth, somehow this funny-looking fellow made the affairs of Dark Lords seem far, far away.

_"Merry-dol, merry-dol, Tom Bombadil-o!"_ sang the strange fellow. _"Bright blue is his jacket, and his boots are yellow!"_ I smiled, for the first time in a long while. Tom walked over to me and offered his hand down to me. I grabbed it and he helped me to my feet.

"Thank you," I said. "May I ask who you are?"

He laughed. "You already asked, so Tom will tell you. Tom is the Master of the Old Forest." It all seemed so ironic. Somewhere in mind I knew of the danger of Morgoth, but here I was talking to some eccentric old... Man? Dwarf? Daemon? What was Tom?

"Mr. Bombadil, what, out of curiosity, people do you belong to? You seem rather short for a Man."

He looked at me with a bemused expression, as I had just asked him what color the sky was. "Tom is the Eldest, that's what he is. He was here before the first trees sprouted, and he was here before the Elves..."

"Elves?"

"The tall, pretty folk with pointy ears. Haven't you ever seen one?"

"Oh..." It dawned on me Elf was just another word for Daemon, Elves being their true name and Daemon just a name my people gave them. They, after all, were fighting to defend themselves from the onslaught of Sauron, while my own people were aiding it out of fear. "Yes, I know the people you speak of."

He looked into my eyes. "Something seems to be troubling you. What is it? No matter, for it can't touch you in the Old Forest. Come, have something to eat."

I wanted to resist, to tell him of the impending doom, but somehow my mind was taken off it. I greatly desired food, and nodded my head.

"Tom will return quickly, don't you fret!" He walked casually into the woods, humming to himself. He emerged a minute later with a basket full of food. He sat down, and I did the same when he invited me to. He handed me a roll of bread. "Eat all you like! Tom has more." I took a bite of that food, and no food could have tasted so good to one who had not eaten in two days. He handed me a mug of water, which I drank in my newly realized thirst. He took none for himself, simply singing his nonsense songs as I ate.

This whole ordeal seemed out of place. An ancient evil roamed the land, destroying all, and here I sat eating and listening to the ramblings of... what was he? He wasn't a liar, the simplicity and sincerity of his of his voice told me that much. He wasn't crazy, for he knew very well what was going on around him. He just was, oblivious to the looming danger. In his presence, I began to feel so too, and simply sat there listening to his wild tales and songs.


	11. From Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

I sat listening to Tom Bombadil spin the tale of the River-Daughter when I felt that horrible presence again: Shadow. In the distance, I could see a giant black form, the thing that could only be the Great Old One called Morgoth. Flashes of the ruins of the towns smashes to cinders in his wake bubbled up in my mind, but quickly went under the terror I felt at the approaching idiot destructive force.

Tom walked, unaffected, back into the woods, and I followed him quickly. My death was all but certain now, but I still stayed by Tom's side. I could do nothing but stare in wide-eyed horror as Morgoth approached the forest. Closer came the iron tyrant, louder echoed the footsteps. My fear escalated greater and greater as he approached the wood. He raised his great iron fist over the wood...

Morgoth fell back. He was thrown backward by some great force. I looked at my companion to see Tom with his gaze focused on Morgoth, laughing as the god fell to the ground. Tom Bombadil? Could that strange old fellow possibly have...

The Dark Lord rose to his feet. He walked toward the Old Forest, but every step he took looked labored, as if it took every ounce of his power just to move forward. Tom was not what he seemed to be; he was if anything the exact opposite of Morgoth. Morgoth, lord of death, held no power over Tom, as he was concerned with life. The Dark Lord called forth a great fire from the sky to consume the old forest, but instead the fire fizzled in the air above the wood and Morgoth was again cast backward.

Then...

I looked at Tom and saw he was not what he seemed not at all. There was power in Bombadil to laugh at Morgoth, to play with the ancient evil as child with a toy. The power embodied in the ridiculous fellow beside me... What was it? The new realization of the power assaulted my mind, but somehow it was familiar. I wanted to force this feeling from my mind, to concentrate on the Enemy evidently powerless against the Old Forest.

I turned by head up at Morgoth, once again thrown back by the easily concealed might of the Master of the Old Forest. More than anything, at that moment I wanted that accursed being gone from Middle-Earth. I wanted him gone from Middle-Earth. That my own will, a force I thought feeble after being broken by the Sauron cult, shone greater than fear astonished me.

The Dark Lord Morgoth made one final lunge at the Old Forest with his great iron fist. Tom looked up at the fist with amusement.

_"Break the limbs and burn the roots_  
Old Melkor wants to do  
But Morgoth hurts not brush nor twig  
For his time is through."

The five-foot-tall fellow, ignorant of all fear, stood before the great giant. He continued signing, words of nonsense and utter lack of seriousness, yet they somehow took on continually more meaning and power in my mind until the truth suddenly blazed before me: Tom was a mere aeon, an embodiment for some power beyond comprehension. I looked into his deep blue eyes, and they shone with holy silver-white light as two jewels. His song of nonsense, to my ears, sounded fairer than any I have ever heard.

At that instant, Morgoth looked down at Tom, a mere old hermit, in utter fear. Tom's song seemed painful to Morgoth, who staggered backwards from the woods. His movement ceased, then he fell to the ground, his iron countenance turning to stone, which moss quickly began to grow on as soon as the massive body hit the ground. From the stone corpse of the god escaped a swirl of what appeared to be black dust. It dissolved in the sunlight, leaving only the sound of Tom's signing as his eyes dimmed.


	12. He

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Easterling, one of Mordor's allies, leaves home to fight the Gondorian menace but ends up finding something infinetely stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my story. The Quenya verses in this final chapter are actually lines translated from part of the song Messiah by Yayoi Yula, which themselves are taken from the Book of Revelation in the Bible. The translation isn't exact, but here is approximately what it reads:

_Erollo engë ar ëa ar ëuva:_

I am insane now, I know it. No Man can experience the awesome power that destroyed Morgoth and remain sane. Moreover, with Morgoth’s defeat more visions and knowledge flooded into my mind already full of things no man should know.

_Nan i Alpha ar i Omega,_

The gods of my childhood are real, dwelling in the ancient land of Valinor across the Great Sea, but that matters little to me now. Morgoth was originally counted as one of the gods, perhaps even the greatest among them. Even the most powerful of gods is before the power helpless.

_I Minya ar i Tella,_

My visions have set history before me as a book. I see Morgoth lying on the ground asleep and helpless before the mortal Beren and the Elf maiden Lúthien, Beren ready to cut from the Iron Crown a holy Silmaril which Morgoth stole in ancient days. I see all the forces of Morgoth slain by Elven army of the the other gods, the horrible tyrant in a great Iron Chain, Sauron cut down by the hand of Isildur. If gods I could indeed call the Dark Lords, they are far from all-powerful.

_I Yessë ar i Metta._

What I thought was reverence for Sauron was nothing but fear. A childish fear of death and the unknown threw me into a mindless obedience. Seeing Morgoth’s annihilation, I am beyond fear.

_Istan i cáriet,_

I look at what lies beyond. That power that shone in Bombadil’s eyes and wiped Morgoth from reality. That awesome power that bent the world and destroyed Númenor. Even more, that truly incomprehensible power that brought the universe into existence.

_Ne quetintë nat cuina,_

The power is none other than Eru Ilúvatar, the One and Father of All, the True God. He is truly beyond the universe, watching the world from the Timeless Halls. He is infinite. The mortal mind simply cannot handle thoughts of Him, who rules both chaos and order, life and death.

_Ná nat firin._

Death… Death is the Gift of Man from Eru Ilúvatar. He gave to the Elves immortality and with it the charge to remain in this world until the End of Days; to Men He gave the Gift of Death and freed them from eternal bondage to the world. The Dark Lords spread a fear of death among Men because it is a mystery to all. Given enough time and inquiry, a Man could find out anything about the world of life. What lies beyond death, though, is a mystery know not even to the gods, to none but Eru. To go on a journey whose destination is unknown and from which return is impossible is indeed an unsettling prospect, which the Dark Lords molded into outright fear.

_Á ná cuiva,_

There is indeed an example of Men who "defeated” death with the aid of the Dark Lords: the Nine Ringwraiths slave to Sauron. Death is the necessary end of life, and without it the gift of life, meant to be a blessing of Eru, instead becomes a curse, causing one to grow weary of the world and in time come to hate it. I now realize the Ringwraith is the immortal being I and the rest of those in the cult of Sauron aspired to become; I now hate it.

_Ar á envinyata i lemyar sé i fenda fíriëo._

I look at my own people, the Easterlings. They stand proud in their old ways and their desire to defend their land from what they believe to be evil foreigners. To accomplish their goal, they took the only path they saw: alliance with Mordor, which offers them the horrible fruit of freedom from death. As the final punishment for their, no, our wrong decision, we must now accept our lot in history as part of the evil that attacked Gondor.

_Atalantë, Númenor Velicë._

The ancient land of Númenor, the great kingdom of Men with its beautiful towers and rolling hills, where is it now? The fear of death spread across the land until it drove the people to madness, and now, behold, Númenor lies at the bottom of the sea. Let it sleep beneath the waves forever as monument of the power of Eru, who cast it down when the fear of death consumed the people so completely that even before they died they were no longer truly alive.

_Rato tuluvan,_

What of the Dark Lord Sauron who still rules Mordor? Even now, two hobbits carry the Ring that is the source of Sauron's power. They will succeed though their quest is impossible, as the quest of Beren and Lúthien was impossible, the voyage of Eärendil was impossible, and the victory of Bombadil was impossible. In the world of of the great artist Eru, impossibility has no meaning

_Ar mórë úëuva._

Men alone of Ilúvatar's creation can go beyond the circles of the world, through death. I have been granted by Eru vast knowledge and glimpses of things I have never seen with my own eyes, yet I have been shown nothing about death. It remains the one great mystery, which none can solve lest they take the trip themselves. Death now fascinates me, precisely for the reason it is a great mystery.

_Hallelujah!_

Indeed I fear not death; I look forward to it. My mind is too warped, too abstract, too full of thoughts not of this world to live among Men anymore. I embrace death whenever it comes, even though I know not in the slightest what lies beyond it. I await my time to go, for when my soul leaves this world I shall finally see the answer to the great mystery which even gods cannot solve.

_Etelehtë, alcaro, ar valo nar Eruo._

 

 

(Author's Note: Thank you for reading my story. The Quenya verses in this final chapter are actually lines translated from part of the song Messiah by Yayoi Yula, which themselves are taken from the Book of Revelation in the Bible. The translation isn't exact, but here is approximately what it reads:

From he who was and is and is to come, I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End. I know your doings, that they say you are alive, but you are dead. Be aware, and renew that which is at the threshold of death. Downfalled, Númenor the Great. I will come soon, and night will be no more. Hallelujah! Salvation, glory, and power are God's.

Many of themes and concepts in this story were lifted from or inspired by H.P. Lovecraft's work. )


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